Battle for the Southern Border

Based on the Soloran Facette by Clifford E. Morton

by Solomon777

Marshal Ontegas heaved a long sigh of remorse. Sitting atop his armored
gray warhorse, Ontegas scanned the barren field before him. The wasteland
was sprawled with spots of haggard vegetation, and deep crevices cut by
human hands. This land had once been a vast, fertile farming community.
The lands last harvest had been fifteen seasons prior. The fields should have
brought good produce to the Soloran people for those lost ages. However,
the Border War with the neighboring Empire of Xyll had ravaged the
countryside and caused ruin to the land, possibly forever afterward.

Ontegas’ father was a trade-farmer, and had taught his boys to follow him
and take over the family’s lands. The Marshal had resisted his father’s
tutelage when he was a youth. Ontegas could not fathom himself as a
farmer; the life of a soldier was more to his calling and it challenged him.
Instead of planting, Ontegas found his mornings better occupied by soldiers
of the Beast King’s provincial garrison. The invitation was the only words
Ontegas needed to hear, and it was the beginnings of a soldier’s life. Ontegas
rose through the ranks quickly and became a marshal in the Beast King’s
armies commanding a regiment of one hundred plus warriors.

Ontegas’ mind drifted back to the farming land around. Whoever had worked
this land before the war had either moved on, or joined the militia to fight
against the Armies of Xyll, or both? If the farmer had chosen the later, then
he would have died many seasons ago fighting for the very land he had
tilled. If the farmer had moved on, he was probably allowed a claim in the far
north. There was plenty of open land in the northern reaches of the Lands of
Solor, much of which was inhospitable. However, under the Beast King’s Law,
the conflicted provincial levies would have brought the farmer back to this
very border.

The snapping of gold trimmed, blue shielded, Soloran banners called the
Marshal’s thoughts back to the battlefield. He was a young man still, only
twenty-eight winters old and he commanded a regiment of one hundred
peasant-soldiers. Nearly all of his skirmishers were green; the products of
the levies gathered from the Outer Provinces of the Lands of Solor. It was
considered their duty to the Crown to serve in the Soloran Militia. His bunch
of inexperienced peddlers and farm boys stood shaking in a crooked line
awaiting his orders.

Most of the true soldiers of the Soloran Militia were slaughtered during prior
battles against the Empire of Xyll which had lasted nearly one hundred fifty
years. Soon the invading armies of Xyll would top the horizon and the two
forces would collide, yet again. This battle would end the same as the battles
before, and much Soloran blood would be spilled. Marshal Ontegas quietly
cursed with a knowing regard for his peasant’s bravery. The Marshal looked
at each of his fighters as he rode down the line in front of them. Many of
them, he would not see standing here when the sunset.

Ontegas was born in the northern-most Outer Province of Oulisq, and he

understood the reason for the conflicts with the Soloran Thrown and the
Outer Provinces. The levies taken from the Outer Provinces were restricting
the Provinces farming production, making it harder for the territory to meet
the King’s taxes. Neither the levies nor the farm production could cease, and
it was only a matter of time before the tension became too much for the
Soloran people. Now the Outer Provinces are divided to the Beast King, more
levies and new peasants will not be coming.

The Beast King had ridden to the Southern Borders to meet with Battle
Commander Tokylon, the commanding officer of the force gathered here. The
meeting was brief, as the Beast King was needed in his Outer Provinces. The
Beast King’s departing request to the Battle Commander was not to let the
Southern Border fall.

The request was met by the senior officer’s pledge that Emperor Xyll would
not breach the Southern Border. The Beast King agreed to send additional
forces to assist the Southern Border army. Ontegas knew these soldiers
would attempt to be levied from the Outer Provinces as well. The core of the
Lands of Solor had been stripped of warriors nearly a decade ago.
Oulisq, Tides, Cravenport, Marck, and Xzao Archipelago compose the Soloran
Outer Provinces. Oulisq had a large mercenary force, perhaps the largest in
the Known World; however, those men and women weren’t driven by the
bindings of honor. Gold coin was much more persuasive when talking to the
Oulisq.

The Provinces of Tides, Marck, Cravenport, to the east and the Xzao
Archipelago, to the west, were the naval powers among the Lands of Solor.
Each Province had a shipyard and was capable of developing fleets of skilled
mariners. They also generated the bulk of Solor’s profit from trade.
Each Outer Province was represented in the faces and names to his own
peasant soldiers.

A keening sound echoed across the vast plains of the battlefield. Ontegas
raised a gauntleted hand to shield his eyes from the sun. It only took him a
moment to find the dark dot of the hawk circling the fields. A soldier from his
regiment said something that the Marshal couldn’t understand, but he knew
the omen well. Should a bird’s call come from the north there will be tragedy
in its wake. Should a bird’s call come from the south, there will be luck in its
coming. If the bird sounds its call from the east there is bountiful harvest,
and from the west there will be drought. The hawk’s call came to them from
the north.

Ontegas cursed under his breath as the raptor drew closer. He could see the
telltale golden tresses of Sabediera, the Beast King’s own bird of prey.
Looking around him from atop his mount, he selected the standard bearer to
run for the latest news. “You, Derigan, set the standard and go see to the
Battle Commander’s tents, return to me any news of importance.”
Derigan, a young boy of fifteen winters from the Outer Province of Marck
nodded to the Marshal in understanding. Derigan thrust the battle marker’s
tapered shaft into the ground, and ran weaving into the crowd of soldiers and
freemen within the encampment. A long, uneasy silence followed in which
not a soul spoke among the Marshal’s troupe.

Moments later he returned. Breathing heavily, Derigan dashed through the

crowd toward Ontegas’ dapple-gray warhorse. The large animal, Mortalis,
shifted his footing thumping the ground with his large hooves. Startled by
the boy’s approach, Mortalis eyed him with a warning. Ontegas easily reined
the gray stallion in and took in his standard bearer’s worried eyes.
Derigan was in tears, as he dropped to his knees and said, “Sir, the
King…The Beast King is dead.”

Ontegas opened his mouth to ask a question, but knew he would not get an
answer. “Stand Derigan.”

How could the Beast King of the Lands of Solor, a descendant of the God-
King of Beasts Solor, be killed? The Beast King traveled with a full escort of
his personal guard, all were armed and trained as the best in the world.
Ontegas thought, at the very least, the Beast King always had one of his
three advisors close to consult with and for protection. The Beast King was
not a man in need of protection, he was one of the greatest warriors alive,
yet his advisors were wise and deadly. He glanced in the direction of the
Battle Commanders tents and knew the brave leader would be calling a
meeting of his marshals soon.

The Marshal looked at the questioning faces of his peasant-soldiers. He knew

his men were demoralized by exhaustion and malnutrition. Ontegas also
knew the power of rumors in a unit as tight as his group of fighting men and
women. He decided quickly to let the truth be known; he reined Mortalis
around and rode down his line of soldiers. In a loud and clear voice he said,
“Brothers and Sisters…I will not sacrifice my honor for withholding the truth
from those who will fight for me! News has come of the Beast King’s death!”
Murmurs flowed though his gathered force, and the Marshal raised his arm to
signal that he wanted to speak. His soldiers quieted one-by-one and let the
officer talk. “I don’t know how, but I will find out! A meeting of the knights of
the Southern Border will take place! I am going to speak for you in this
meeting. I need to know, will you fight or will you retreat?”

The soldier-peasants talked among themselves, and a few shouted approval

of the young officer. Slowly a gathered response came that made Ontegas
smile. His peasant-soldiers would fight beside him. Satisfied the Marshal
headed back to the head of his legion. His standard bearer had taken up the
colors again and stood facing the open plains where the armies of Xyll would
surely walk. Ontegas was proud of them.

Ontegas looked again to the tents of the Battle Commander and he saw
numerous lightly armored heralds spill out and running in various directions.
One such herald was coming for him. This was it, the Marshal thought, now
comes the meeting of whether to stay and fight for a plot of land that has
cost thousands of lives.

The herald sent to him was a pretty young woman, who got stares from
Derigan. Ontegas looked her over and noted her figure, and the wanting look
from his standard bearer. She looked back at the boy through a sheet of
auburn strands that had fallen out of her hair-tie and smiled.

The woman stopped shy of the mounted Marshal and bowed stating that
Battle Commander Tokylon requests his presence.

Looking back at his bedraggled soldiers he said to Derigan. “I shall be back.”

A squire was at his side as he slid off of Mortalis, and the young woman took
the reigns of the muscled horse. Ontegas reached up and grabbed his
plumed helm from the saddle. The plume was long and gold, trimmed so that
only the last of the feather‘s fan hung on the naked plume. This signaled his
rank on the field as a Marshal in the Soloran Militia. Field Marshals wore a
plume of the same color with a full fan on their feather; Field Commanders
wore a naked plume of deep blue.

A short walk that seemed to take ages greeted the young officer. Would the
Southern Armies divide and flee; would they fight to the last sword; would
there be a trick of strategy involved in their retreat? All of these questions
occurred to Ontegas as he stepped through the tent flap that was held open
by another herald.

Immediately inside a very tall, handsome, older man with a short brown
beard looked into the Marshal’s eyes as he entered the big tent. The
stranger’s eyes appeared to look right through Ontegas, as if they were
looking into his soul. The taller man ducked outside as he was too tall for the
opening, and was gone. The stranger said nothing, but the young officer
could not shake the feeling as if the stranger had been peered into Ontegas’
thoughts.

Further inside, officers around a ramshackle table turned to see the

newcomer in unison. Ontegas stood and bowed, as was customary. The
senior officers replied with curt nods. Amidst them stood Battle Commander
Tokylon; Tokylon was a man with graying mane of hair. The Battle
Commander was decorated with bright silver armor that had gold trim on its
edges. A half cape hung from one shoulder, on it, the lion crest of the
Soloran Throne was thickly embroidered. The Battle Commander’s wizen
eyes regarded the lesser officer, but he did not move.
Tokylon was a fair and just leader from where Ontegas stood. Tokylon was
known as a man of virtues, and he enforced those virtues to his officers. He
was a father of three young ones who lived in the Lands principal township of
Solora. Tokylon’s family had a long-running friendship with the Throne of
Solor. He was also a man of extreme skill on the strategies of war. The Battle
Commander had served on the Southern front from when he was a junior
officer himself. Today, aside from receiving news of his friend’s death, his
king’s death; Battle Commander Tokylon received news that the front he had
fought and planned so hard to save, was going to fall.

Of the other officers in the tent, Ontegas knew them all. The second in
command belonged to two officers. Field Commanders Xas’tse and Walthe,
the two were very strict yet their combined knowledge was invaluable. Both
men hovered over a land-map of the Southern Borders. At their shoulders
stood Field Marshal’s Pyotir and Bouman; both young and tested by various
battles against the Province of Gor’Selon, a territory of the Empire of Xyll.

Nearby stood Marshal’s Keltan, Bistan, and the newest officer to arrive on the
Southern front, Marshal Orbesh. Pacing in the center of the tent was a blond
Marshal named Nostrom. And lastly, Ontegas sighted Marshal Strakow
standing on the other side of the tent flap. She was a hard woman from a
stoic, war-tilted tribe in western Solor.

Ontegas leaned close to Strakow, “I’ve heard the news.”

Without moving, Strakow replies quietly, “The Battle Commander is asking

his officers what they plan to do. Scouts have sighted reinforcements
grouping with Xyll’s main forces just over the horizon…they are armed with a
full two thousand magi.”

Ontegas looked at her, eyes wide. Strakow’s face was nearly chiseled from
stone showing no emotion. She preferred to command women in battle as
she claims they are the best combatants. Ontegas had tried to make her
strong will release and for Strakow to enjoy life, yet her resistance was
remarkable. She was not an ugly woman to look at, but at times she had a
piercing stare. Her hair was black as pitch, and always worn in a tight bun at
the back. “Do you think the combined force is large enough to cause a route
before battle?”

“For my soldiers? No.” She stated flatly and Ontegas should have seen that
reply coming. “For the Soloran presence on the Southern Border?” She
looked straight into his eyes, “Yes.”

Ontegas thought for a moment, “The Beast King’s order stands that the
Southern Border will not fall, yes?”

Strakow smiled weakly with thin lips. “Yes, until the Throne’s successor
issues new orders. Since the Beast Queen is dead these ten seasons prior,
that leaves the only daughter as our new Beast Queen.”

Ontegas picked up Strakow’s thought and whispered his conclusion, “If or

when the new Beast Queen gives an order changing the wishes of her father,
the order won’t reach the Southern Border in time for the coming battle.”
Strakow just nodded.

The tent flap flew open and in stepped the camps third in command, Battle
Marshal D’Ragna. D’Ragna was an uncouth officer, and a chaotic soldier on
the field. He met any and all battles with an almost mentally scarred
approach; flinging himself wholeheartedly into combat without concern.

Ontegas regarded the veteran Battle Marshal with a nod and D’Ragna nodded
back. “What’s goin’ on in here?” D’Ragna asked Ontegas and Strakow.
“I believe we are planning a tactical retreat.” Marshal Strakow said.

D’Ragna’s peered at the table full of overland charts. He was a bald man of
slim build, but in his armor he appeared the very essence of the Western
Soloran militiaman. D’Ragna was sent to the Soloran militia with favorable
remarks from his village in the west. His savagery and endurance in battle
was said to be the substance of fables. Those same remarks placed D’Ragna
on the Southern Border as an officer, and his actions placed him as third in
command.

D’Ragna stepped up to the Battle Commander, “We don’t need to retreat!”

The Battle Marshal eyed the table again.

“Go on?” the Battle Commander led, his visage brightened somewhat at
hearing that they may be able to hold the Southern Border.

D’Ragna felt the eyes of the officers on him. His eyes scanned the charts and
came to rest on a cropping of trees. D’Ragna said nothing for a moment
then, “I take it a feigned retreat has been thought of?”

“Yes,” Field Commander Xas’tse said sharply.

“Our only hope is to retreat and form a front in the north.” added Field
Commander Walthe.
Field Marshal Pyotir’s quiet voice said, “I’ve had scouts infiltrate Xyll’s
encampments. Xyll’s forces have magi, D’Ragna.”

The junior officers gasp at the mention of the secret art of the Fae. Very Few
humans were able or allowed to utilize the secrets of magic, and it was
against the Beast King’s law to practice such. D’Ragna cursed as he studied
the map.

Following a long moment, D’Ragna spoke again, “Who wants to retreat?” His
graveled voice was low and sounded as though depression was taking over
his fighting spirit.

One by one the majority nodded. Those who wanted to stand and fight were
Battle Commander Tokylon, Battle Marshal D’Ragna, Marshal Strakow,
Marshal Ontegas, and Marshal Nostrom. The Southern Border militia was
split.

D’Ragna looked at them and glanced at the map again.

The tents flap opened and a man dressed in peasant garb stepped in.

Nostrom stopped pacing when the man entered. Hastily he walked over to
the peasant and spoke a few hushed words. Nostrom turned to the gathered
officers with an ashen face and said, “My scouts report that the forces of Xyll
are advancing.”

The resulting silence of the tent was broken when the Battle Commander
spoke aloud. “If you have a plan D’Ragna, say it. If you have no plan,”
Tokylon choked on his words and continued, “then we will pull back and the
Southern Border will fall.”

D’Ragna didn’t hesitate. “Commander, those who want to retreat can retreat;
however, they must go through here.” The Battle Marshal pointed to a
shallow ravine on the battlefield map. The ravine, called High Edge, was
some distance away from the front; the move would be easy only for those
on horseback, more challenging for those on foot as speed would be a heavy
factor.

The officers began to scoff at the idea of such a retreat, but the Battle
Marshal spoke first. “Now listen,” D’Ragna’s graveled voice filled the tent, “I
need a legion to charge the forces of Xyll. We aren’t going to wait and fire
your arrows first. This legion needs to be disciplined. I want them recalled
when the Xyll forces charge. I need another legion; Nostrom, you go to High
Edge, go now and ready an ambush at its mouth.”

Nostrom nodded that he understood and bowed to Tokylon as he ducked out

of the tent.

D’Ragna continued, “Ontegas, Strakow, which one of you’ll charge the Xyll
front?”

Strakow’s mouth opened, but Ontegas volunteered first. He knew his legion
would die before they would surrender ground to a ruler as twisted and cruel
as Xyll. The Beast King may have done things wrong from time to time
nonetheless he was a good King.

Strakow glared at the young Marshal.

“Good,” D’Ragna’s voice called out. “Strakow you ride flank with me. This
section of trees, here,” he pointed to an area of the map, “we’ll hide in here
and sit until Xyll drives our retreat to the ravine. We need to leave
immediately after I’m done here.”

Field Commander Xas’tse said, “You didn’t give Nostrom a signal.”

D’Ragna looked at the man and smiled, “He don’t need one. When he feels
the time is right to ambush, he’ll ambush. By that time, Marshal Strakow and
myself should be able to close behind Xyll. We can pounce on them at the
ravine. Those who retreated can ride to the battle or they can watch from the
ravine outage.” D’Ragna looked around to the officers.

Claxons sounded in the distance. Everyone looked at one another.

Battle Commander spoke aloud, “Xas‘tse, send a runner to alert the Beast
Queen. The final battle of the Southern Front is today. Battle Marshal
D’Ragna, your plan is as good as any. We have run out of time to plan as I
see it.”

“Officers, to your legions. We have a battle to retreat from.” Tokylon smiled

genuinely.

Ontegas didn’t bother to say farewell salutations; he leapt out of the tent and
walked hurriedly toward his legion. The other officers spilled out of the Battle
Commander’s tent, and went about making the preparations to retreat. If
Ontegas had looked for the gentlemen he’d seen when he first entered the
tent, he would not be able to find him. The tall, wizen man had long departed
the encampment.

As Ontegas nears his legion he finds his squire; the young man hands
Ontegas his plumed helmet. Setting it on his head, the Marshal walks to
Mortalis and swings up into the saddle using his squire‘s bent knee as a step.
Ontegas’ heavy armor is light enough to run in, and for the length that the
Marshal has worn it, it feels as a second skin. He reins the warhorse around
and looks out onto the plains. He is taken aback by what the sight that
greets his eyes.

Nearly a hundred battle standards flapped with the breeze. Several hundred
soldiers stood by each standard, all armed well, and all armored equally well.
Various commanders rode through the ranks of archers, skirmishers, and
cavalry. Each soldier wore the black and green colors of Emperor Xyll. A
score of drummers rapped off a marching cadence to line up the massive
fighting force.

Fear welled inside the Marshal and Ontegas embraced it like an old friend.
Fear accompanied every battle, for if he stopped feeling the fear, he knew he
would stop being human. His mind wondered over images of warriors like
Strakow, D’Ragna and Tokylon. Did they feel the fear, as he did?

Ontegas steeled himself and pulled Mortalis around to ride the length of his
legion. The warhorse trotted down the line, his heavy hoof falls thudding
against the earth. “We are going to charge the army of Xyll!” Ontegas
shouted.

No one spoke against him. The Marshal breathed hard and looked at his
warrior-peasants. “We will engage the enemy for only a moment, and then
we will retreat. We will retreat as fast as our legs will carry us. Follow me, if
anything else; keep your eyes open for me!” Ontegas finished his
announcement. No one questioned him, yet everyone looked downcast. The
Marshal and the peasant-soldiers knew they were going to die today.

The rapping cadence from the Armies of Xyll stopped as one and the Marshal
looked back at the massive front. A shine glinted off of the horizon and
Ontegas wondered what commander that happened to be. He knew the shine
had come from armor or a sword poised to command the attack. Something
that shiny could only belong to an officer of high rank. He shouted over his
shoulder, “There will be no mercy!”

Ontegas’ peasant-soldiers cheered behind him, but he knew their fear as well
as his own.

Claxons began to sound from within the ranks of the Southern Border forces.
Marshal Ontegas drew his long-curved sword of Oulisq steel. The eyes of his
soldiers were on his every move as he sat atop Mortalis with his arm ready to
fall signaling their charge. With pike and spade and old weaponry the
peasant-soldiers focused on the enemy.

A claxon sounded twice from the rear and Ontegas dropped his blade. He
kicked his weight into Mortalis’ side, and the warhorse was off down into the
barren plains. Mortalis’ heavy hooves thundered a single drumming beat.
One hundred armed peasant-soldiers ran screaming after their commander.

The gallop seemed to be endless as Ontegas sped toward the angry faces of
the Xyll warriors, who had started their own charge. Ontegas does not recall
hearing a signal from the opposing forces, perhaps his charge had taken
them by surprise and they charge despite their orders. The Marshal knew this
wasn’t the case. Those faces he looked into were hardened warriors. His
peasant army would be slaughtered, curse the Beast King for not sending
levies of worth.

The collision was similar to a thunderclap. Marshal Ontegas galloped and

slashed at the soldiers he could reach. Mortalis kicked and bit the
unfortunate souls that came before his strong legs and wicked teeth. He
heard the first few men of his army scream and curse as death took them.
He glanced back at his men and uttered a silent prayer to Solor. Mortalis
kicked out his hindquarters and sent a shielded Xyll skirmisher flying
outward.

Ontegas looked forward over the massive front of Emperor Xyll. Some of the
force had been committed to his advance, many still waited along the hill.

***

“What the hells are the Soloran’s doing?” Grand Magi watched the doomed
assault from horseback. The Grand Magi was an aged man of a hundred of
seasons. His white hair and short beard made him look rather peculiar in his
regal decorations of office. His bright silver pendant glittered in the morning
light showing himself to his thousand strong magi of Fae and human.

Beside the Grand Magi sat General Bitterach, an officer of great experience
and one who had fought the Southern Borders of Solor since he was a whelp.
Wrinkling his stubby nose he said, “You tell me wise one?” The General’s
voice is husky and his s’ are drawn-out when he speaks. Smiling he said,
“They are luring us, very interesting maneuvers Tokylon.” The General had
known of the Soloran Battle Commander for countless years and felt as
though they should have been brothers. “Surely he must know we out
number him by fifty times over.”

Now it was the Grand Magi’s turn to smile as he said, “No General, they have
greatly underestimated our forces today.” He swept his sun-spotted hand
over the complete Xyll army numbering into the tens of thousands. “My magi
and I have weaved an illusion strong enough to dim the mightiest of wills. I
have made your army appear as though it had never moved at the calling of
your orders to charge.”

General Bitterach was not one to laugh nor had he found reason to laugh in
his forty years of combat against the likes of Battle Commander Tokylon, yet
he laughed hard and long at the foolery that he now witnessed. He slaps the
Grand Magi on the shoulder, jostling the old man, “I smell victory today!”

***

A pikeman, not seen by Ontegas, ran into Mortalis’ flank. The steel-headed
pike glanced off the warhorses barding and nearly skewered the young
Marshal. Ontegas responded in kind by freeing the man’s head from his neck
with a slash from his curved sword. He pulled Mortalis around and shouted
above the battle, “Route, route men!” and the Marshal kicked Mortalis into a
gallop back out of the fray.

As he fled he witnessed the bodies of many of his peasant-soldiers littering

the ground. Ontegas cursed himself, “Solor save us.”
Mortalis carried him to the Southern Border front and he arrived in time to
witness the last of the legions trotting away. Claxons sounded from Ontegas’
rear and he peered back witnessing the Xyll front moving forward as one.
The tactic was extermination, and Ontegas knew it was for the simple
purpose of destroying everything in the army’s path. The maneuver was solid
yet slow.

The front of the extermination tactic was wide and the Marshal feared the
ambush would be discovered. He looked among his soldiers; only thirty were
left. Many of his thirty were wounded. Ontegas rode ahead of his wounded
army and addressed them, “Men, we have to hold them here. There needs to
be more time for the rear forces to retreat.”

An older peasant named Tolber stepped forward, “Sir, we will hold them, I
and the wounded.”

Marshal Ontegas saw the determination in the eyes of the man. “Yes, the
wounded stay here. Take what weaponry you’ll need. Those who are healthy,
come with me.” He rode forward and waited for the wounded that would hold
the advancing Xyll armies to take weaponry, and say farewell to the brave
wounded for their sacrifice. Soon twelve men and women surrounded the
mounted Soloran officer. Ontegas looked at each of them and saw a soldier’s
honor in each set of eyes.

Ontegas pulls the large dapple-gray around and looked toward the path
leading to High Edge. Seeing the craggy out cropping heralding the hilly
territory beyond Ontegas yelled, “Follow me,” and trotted heavily onward.

Ontegas’ soldiers were not as peasant-warriors; they were militia, as true as

any that had served.

Mortalis carried Ontegas into High Edge and rode far up the steep slopes
several hundreds of meters before he and his men reach the ravine. Turning
the dapple-gray about he surveys the ground to mount a stand against the
advancing Xyll forces. On the air, he hears the screams and sharp clashing of
metal from his wounded back on the trail. But it only lasts a moment before
the drumming beat of the advancing Xyll army continues.

Ontegas smiles as he sees his own battle standard wading through the
twelve soldiers, it is shattered in half but young Derigan still holds it high,
“Mr. Derigan, nice to see you have come with us!”

“Would not miss it, Sir.” Derigan shouted back.

Ontegas shouts out over his soldiers, “Line!” The last of his men straighten
and face the advancing force.
Ontegas spurs Mortalis to ride before his soldiers. Ontegas circles the large
warhorse back to the end of the line; it’s heavily hooves landing on the
ground with a solid jarring weight. The line waits. The breaths of the soldiers
are heavy and labored with exhaustion. They watch the opening at the
ravine’s mouth leading into High Edge for what seems an eternity before the
marching drums spill slowly into view.

The Xyll forces, far smaller than they had been at the beginning of the battle,
round the pass at the mouth of the ravine and stop. Xyll’s own banners of
black, and green, flap in the autumn breeze.

For a long agonizing moment nothing happens between the two forces.
Ontegas knew he and his soldiers were more than outnumbered, but he
wasn’t sure of the reason for the delay in their charge. “Something is
wrong?” The young officer thought aloud bringing a look of concern from his
standard bearer.

A call sounded from down the line, “Marshal, a rider is coming!” Ontegas
turns to see Field Marshal D’Ragna riding a scout horse hard and fast towards
him.

Blood is trailing down D’Ragna’s forehead from a blow. His mouth is open
and the experienced soldier is yelling something, but Ontegas’ ears cannot
pick out the sound over the roar of the horses hooves.

Then the world came crushing back as D’Ragna’s voice shouted, “Marshal,
Xyll attacked us at the Pass. The runners have been slaughtered.”

Ontegas spurred Mortalis around, his heavy hooves thumping on the ground.
“What has happened?”

D’Ragna pulled back harshly to stop the fast horse before Ontegas. Mortalis
shifted uneasily and D’Ragna spoke quickly, both testing
Ontegas‘concentration. “The Xyll Armies are twofold, the second lay waiting
to ambush our forces at the Pass.” D’Ragna stopped talking long enough to
pull the satchel that loosely strapped around his neck and shoulders. “You’re
the runner now Marshal.” D’Ragna tossed the satchel to Ontegas, “I am
taking command of your legion and we are riding to save the Battle
Commander.”

Ontegas spurred Mortalis closer, “Sir, I only have twelve soldiers.”

D’Ragna smiled in a half-crazed manner, “Then I am leading a rescue squad.

Commander Tokylon’s stand is at the mouth of the Pass.” D’Ragna points to
the Xyll soldiers poised to charge, “That legion is the cork on this giant and
deadly bottle. Now go, ride for the Palace…ride for Solora!”

Ontegas watched D’Ragna hoping that the veteran was going to smile as if it
had been a joke. Nothing happened and Ontegas kicked Mortalis into a full
gallop. His heavy hooves crashing into the ground sending a roll of thunder
loud enough to be a cavalry charge.

D’Ragna turned to the frightened men and women he now commanded. He

looked at the standard bearer. “Drop that banner and take up your sword,
this fight will be for survival, not honor. Follow me!”

Mortalis reached the hills above the ravine and High Edge and Ontegas bade
him to stop. Ontegas looked back toward the Southern Border. He saw dust
from several different trails all coming to close on the pass opening. Ontegas
strained his eyes to find his banner, yet he could not. He hoped young
Derigan had died quickly. Ontegas could now see the true size of the enemy
army. Xyll’s huge force had merely moved around the Southern Border,
taking the more difficult routes of uneven terrain and sealed the fate of the
Soloran militia.

From the vantage where Ontegas now perched he could see the remaining
skirmish at the Pass where the armies connected. Among the skirmishers
glinted the bright steel of polished armor, Ontegas knew it to be Battle
Commander Tokylon. Then, like a candle being blown out, the shine was
gone from sight. Ontegas blinked looking down, then to Mortalis. His
emotions warred as he understood that the entire Southern Army was gone,
except for him. Ontegas felt a twisting pang of guilt that he had lived through
this slaughter.

Mortalis’s body shifted his footing and Ontegas looked out to see a thin dusty
trails drift into the air. A scouting party was coming after him; they had seen
his departure and knew he was carrying a warning for the Beast Queen.

Ontegas looked down at Mortalis. “My friend, what I need is for you to run as
if you were but a spring foal.” Ontegas pulled his dagger from its sheath,
“But, you’re not going to make it far with this armor holding you down.” He
sliced through the straps securing the barding to the warhorse, dropping the
plates to the ground. The sole piece of armor left on the gray stallion was the
saddle. Ontegas wasn’t about to choose that moment to free Mortalis of that
piece as it would have taken more time than the pursuing scout patrol would
allow.

Sheathing the dagger Ontegas spurred Mortalis onward, to Solora.